


bandages

by candyharlot



Series: zine fics [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crushes, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot
Summary: At this point in his life, Sakusa doesn't expect people to understand. He only wants to be left alone.Wash your hands with the soap you carry in your bag, the brand that's unscented and doesn't give you a rash. Stretch your left leg for exactly forty-two seconds. Spin the ball three times before serving.The list goes on.And on.





	bandages

So that he can survive in a world seemingly created just to spite him, Sakusa is often forced to think on his feet, invent new ways to cope. It’s either that or succumb to it…whatever _it_ is (the jury is still out on that part.) His peers—the ones who actually bother to speak _to_ him rather than _about_ him—often refer to him and his habits as "quirky" or "eccentric," while his parents toss around the word "illness" over a glass of wine when they think he's asleep.

What they just don’t know is that to Sakusa, his habits aren't quirky, nor are they habits—they're compulsions, and he has little to no control over how (or when) they manifest. Luckily, he's had the same basic ones for most of his life so he has a good idea of what to expect day-to-day, but every now and then—usually when he's stressed—new ones emerge. Sometimes they go away after whatever triggered it is gone, sometimes they stick around, but the fact remains that the older he gets, the more he collects. Like a zoo.

At this point in his life, Sakusa doesn't expect people to understand. He only wants to be left alone.

 _Wash your hands with the soap you carry in your bag, the brand that's unscented and doesn't give you a rash. Stretch your left leg for exactly forty-two seconds. Spin the ball three times before serving._ The list goes on.

And on.

There are times when Sakusa believes that his compulsions are the only things keeping him from shattering into a million pieces every time something goes wrong, fragments of meat and hair and bone on the volleyball court like the scene of a depraved homicide.

Most people tend towards pity when they witness him performing one of his rituals; he recalls the awful grin that spread across Miya Atsumu's face yesterday, the way he slinked against the doorframe as he watched Sakusa meticulously scrub his hands.  What people like Miya don’t understand is sticking to his rigid internal script is what allows Sakusa to perform at his peak, maintain the title of "Itachiyama's Ace." What they don’t understand is that Sakusa's compulsions are the wires holding the fibers of his mind and body together. It doesn't allow for much flexibility, being this way, but Sakusa doesn't need to be flexible. He needs to be _strong_.

Every so often, one of the wires comes loose, snaps, and Sakusa is forced to assess the damage.

He very pointedly ignores Komori’s expression as he stares him down through the net. His eyes are round with concern. It makes Sakusa’s lip curl. They're currently at a training camp with other Under-19 National Team hopefuls from across the country and their last practice match of the day is finally drawing to a close. But Sakusa's muscles spasm every time he moves, and his mind is in turmoil; a first-year setter from one of the Miyagi teams plucked at the strings of his mental violin earlier and he hasn’t had time to retune.

“Kiyoomi-kun, wait,” Komori calls out, his fingers catching on Sakusa’s shirt sleeve on their way out of the gym. His brows furrow when Sakusa turns to him and meets his gaze—or at least, tries to through the curtain of wavy hair that has crept into his eyes. He plucks the longest piece and shoves it behind his ear.

Komori swallows, his eyes flickering down. "Your hand..."

It takes Sakusa a few seconds to notice something is off. He turns his hand over and over again, blood courses through his eardrums, loud and rhythmic. His vision is a little spotty—he hasn’t had much of an appetite today. He frowns as he stares down at the red-and-white volleyball between his palms. Blinks one, two, three times.

_Oh._

The volleyball is supposed to be white. Just white. "Well, well," he deadpans as he inspects the wound at the juncture of his thumb and index finger. The skin has split neatly, right along the curve. "This is rather inconvenient."

Komori rolls his eyes before he takes Sakusa's hand in his and inspects it, turning it this way and that. Sakusa quirks an eyebrow but allows it, only because this is _Komori,_ and as Sakusa's oldest friend, Komori gets certain...privileges.

"Alright. Come on, tough guy," Oldest Friend sighs after a moment, tugging at Sakusa’s arm. "Let's get that cleaned up. Where's your hand salve? Y'know—the stuff ya use when we're at home."

“I left it.” Sakusa is tired, but he lets Komori drag him out of the gym, down the hallway to the spacious room the players are being housed in for the week. Spare futons litter the floor, the only air circulation is a cluster of box fans. Sakusa loathes—has _always_ loathed these training camp sleeping arrangements: everyone packed in like livestock, the absolutely disgusting noises people make in their sleep, the stench of sweat becoming more and more piquant and distracting as the night wears on. Sakusa  snagged some sleeping aids from his mother’s medicine cabinet before leaving home and so far, has used them every night this week.

Komori is the only one who knows about Sakusa’s struggle to…well, _exist_ , and Sakusa would very much so like to keep it that way. He doesn't mind Komori knowing, because Komori knows when to back off and when to take matters into his own small, callused hands.

Or, in this case: when to take Sakusa's shaking, bleeding hand in his.

Komori, for all of his faults, is written into Sakusa's internal script. He has been since they were seven years old, since the day Komori volunteered to partner up with Sakusa during one of those awful, anxiety-inducing group activities Sakusa always managed to evade—usually by faking a headache and hiding out in the nurse’s office. Komori didn’t mind when Sakusa told him to wash his hands before working with him, or any of the other “odd” requests that followed.

Komori has always respected Sakusa’s wishes above all else, and for that Sakusa is infinitely grateful.

They plop down on Sakusa's futon in the corner of the empty room. Everyone else is still in the showers, Sakusa wrinkles his nose at the mental image while Komori digs through Sakusa's duffle bag. He eventually pulls out a hand towel along with the first-aid kit Sakusa carries with him everywhere precisely for moments like these.

Komori glances up from under his cinnamon-stick eyebrows as he unfurls the blocking tape covering Sakusa's fingers—then whistles at what he sees. "Wow. You should really take better care of your hands, Kiyoomi-kun," he chides, blowing a piece of hair out of his face. "You can't wash 'em like ya do and not expect this to happen. Your skin's so _dry!_ You're like a lizard or somethin'.” He wrinkles his button nose. “Scaly. _"_

Sakusa shifts uncomfortably but stays silent, just stares at the opposite wall, enjoys the feel of the fan blowing on his sweat-damp back.

"Speakin’ of lizards…” Komori muses. He chews on his lip as he cleans Sakusa's hand with care, applies the ointment—it stings, but only for a second—and finally, the thin sterile bandage. Komori’s touch, as always, is gentle, attentive. Sakusa’s shoulders relax into a slouch. “It's gonna be kinda wild not seein' Ushijima-san and the others at Nationals this year, eh?"

Sakusa imagines the stern line of Ushijima's jaw and his nose twitches. He can almost _smell_ the harsh store-brand deodorant. “Yes,” he agrees. “Wild.”

"I know he taught ya a lot ‘n all, but…” Komori ties off the bandage neatly and sets his hands in his lap. “I think it might be better this way. _We’re_ the ones to beat now.”

Sakusa gives a slow nod and flexes his hand experimentally; it’s certainly better than he could’ve done himself. He should still be able to play with minimal issues. “The Miya twins will be a nuisance.”

“Probably, yeah.” Komori shrugs with a carefree grin. “But it’s _excitin’,_ right?”

Sakusa lets out a small scoff through his nose as he plucks a fresh flu mask out of his medicine bag. He attaches it behind each of his ears, mindful of the bandage. “Thanks, Motoya-kun,” he says, voice muffled. “For your assistance.”

“No worries!” Komori bounces to his feet again and holds out a hand. “C’mon. If we leave now, you can beat the dinner rush.”

Sakusa takes it. “Indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally done for the _Haikyuu!! Second Years Zine_. i've rewritten a bit of it since then, mostly just fixing grammatical errors. i hope you guys enjoyed this, it was really fun to write and i really hope we see more of sakusa and komori in the manga sometime soon!!
> 
> here is the accompanying art i did for this as well >> http://imgur.com/oJRDyV9


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